


Bullseye

by isquinnabel



Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin, White Collar
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Community: galentinesday, Crossover, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/pseuds/isquinnabel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you ask Jessi, Kristy may have a lot of strengths but relinquishing control is not one of them -- especially when event planners get involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullseye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OzQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/gifts).



> I wrote this for ozqueen as part of the Galentine's Day fic exchange at Dreamwidth, and managed to keep it secret for nearly two months. I'm exhausted! Tons and tons of thanks to lucida and miss_slipslop for brainstorming with me and for the hooraying and encouragement and read-throughs that got me through the many many incarnations that this crossover idea took <3
> 
> No White Collar spoilers :) This fic also uses up my Fundraiser square for my babysitters100 prompt table at Dreamwidth, yesss.

Darts has never been Kristy’s game.

In theory, she knows exactly how to hit the bullseye. She can’t even walk into a bar without hearing echoes of Sam’s never-ending lectures about parabolic curves and the human arm’s lever system. She can throw softballs, tennis balls, basketballs, and scrunched-up balls of paper with deadly accuracy. She _knows_ what to do.

But, somehow, with a dart it never quite works. She always hits the board too far to the right.

*****

She pours herself a glass of iced tea, glaring at the small pile of business cards on her coffee table with such intensity that she jumps a mile when her phone rings.

“Dammit,” she hisses, hastily wiping spilled iced tea off of her hands and onto her sweats. She crosses the living room in two strides and grabs her phone.  
“What?” she barks.  
“Have you decided yet?”  
She narrows her eyes. “Are you checking up on me?”  
“Of course I am!” She can hear the grin in Jessi’s voice. “You’ve made your feelings about this pretty clear, Kristy. I felt like I should check in. So… decided yet?”  
“I have a very thorough selection process.”  
“Kristy.”  
“I’m nearly finished with Phase One.”  
“How many phases are there?”  
She bites her lip. She’s always been a terrible liar.  
“I don’t know.”  
“ _Kristy._ ”  
“This is important, Jessi!”  
“I know it’s important. So does Emma. Every single name she gave you has her seal of approval, and you know how picky she is.”  
“Please. Emma’s not picky, she’s dating a Yankees fan.”  
“You’re being ridiculous.”  
“I’m not being ridiculous!” She picks up a pen and begins furiously clicking it. “I’m being cautious. The Elevé Foundation is ours. Yours and mine.”  
“I know.”  
“We made it what it is. We’ve worked _so hard_.”  
“I know, Kristy. I was there.”  
“I don’t mind hard work. In fact, I _love_ hard work. This fundraiser is vital, and we are more than capable of handling it on our own. I don’t think we should outsource for the sake of outsourcing.”  
“That’s not what we’re doing. We’re outsourcing for the sake of your sanity.”  
“Everything went great last year, if you recall.”  
“The auction was fantastic,” agrees Jessi. “You, however, nearly fell apart.”  
“You’re exaggerating.”  
“No, I’m really not. The board is right, Kristy. There’s room in the budget to hire an event planner, and it’s time we took that route.”  
Kristy rolls her eyes. She’s already heard all the arguments: she’ll have more time to focus on the rest of her duties; she won’t need to work fourteen-hour days for months; this person could be “a positive influence on the event”, whatever that means. She’s not against any of those things, exactly. It’s just…  
“…I’m just not convinced that the board has weighed up the risks.”  
“They have.”  
“It would be a disaster if the auction fell apart.”  
“It won’t.”  
“Our finances for the next twelve months depend on it going well! I’d just feel so much better with someone I trust at the helm.”  
“You’re still at the helm! You get the final say about everything! Emma put a lot of work into that shortlist. The board has approved every one of those names. They’re all highly recommended, they all have great rates for non-profits, and any one of them would do a fantastic job. All that’s left is for you to pick one that you like.”  
“They all stink,” she sulks. “I hate event planners.”  
Jessi sighs. “Whatever, Kristy. Just pick one. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

*****

Kristy cocks her head to the left, critically eyeing her handiwork.

Her dartboard, dug out from the back of the linen closet, hangs from the nail that usually holds her clock. It’s probably slightly crooked, but it doesn’t matter; every inch of the board is covered with business cards.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay. Whichever card the dart hits. That’s the one. No do-overs.” She’s not letting herself get too worried. It could work out for the best -- she may have secretly slipped her own card into the selection, just to the right of the bull’s eye.

She exhales slowly. Then, one quick movement and a solid _thunk_ later, it’s all over.

She stares at the board.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

For once in her life, she’s actually hit the bullseye.

*****

It’s a grey sort of day: grey sky, grey buildings, grey people. Kristy has a love-hate relationship with New York City, and weather like this nudges her towards the grumpier end of the spectrum.

“Morning!” Jessi is a splash of purple against the mundane backdrop of the city. She slides gracefully into the seat opposite, tucking a non-existent strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Did you pick someone?”  
“Granola Guy stole our regular table again.”  
“That’s devastating. Did you pick someone?”  
“Yeah,” she sighs, pushing the card across the table.  
“Elizabeth Burke,” reads Jessi. “Burke Premier Events. Good choice!”  
“I guess,” Kristy shrugs. She’ll have to set up a meeting with this person as soon as possible, and she’d rather not think about it yet. “Busy morning?”  
“Busy enough. Mary taught her first class yesterday, I’m meeting with her to debrief in about a half hour.” Jessi stares at the card, frowning. “Why is there a hole in this?”  
Kristy hesitates. “It was on my bulletin board,” she lies.  
“Well, for future reference, it’s customary to not stick the pin through the phone number.”  
She takes the card back from Jessi, stuffing it into her wallet.  
“Duly noted.”

*****

Kristy stares at the wine list without absorbing a single word. She wanted this meeting to be at one of her regular coffee haunts, or even back at the office, but Emma insisted on booking a table at a pretentious little café. There are crisp tablecloths and monogrammed menus, and she makes a mental note to kill Emma later. Maybe with her own hole punch. There’s a certain poetry in that scenario.

“Kristy Thomas?”

Kristy stands up, smiling politely. “That’s me.”

Kristy has long since mastered the standard introductions, the ‘nice to meet you’ and its accompanying handshake. Outwardly, she is a model of professionalism. Inwardly, she sighs. See, this is exactly why she hates event planners. They’re invariably the kind of person who sweeps into the room on a cloud of delicate perfume, wearing a perfectly tailored jacket and calling every second person “honey.” Elizabeth Burke is exactly what Kristy expected. She tugs awkwardly at the sleeve of her blouse, suddenly very aware that she’s worn the exact same thing four days in a row. It’s like she’s twelve years old all over again, meeting Stacey McGill for the first time.

“First of all, I just want to let you know how excited I am to be working with your foundation,” says Elizabeth. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about Elevé over the years. My neighbor’s daughter has Down syndrome, and she takes your classes out of the Brooklyn studio. Megan can’t praise your program highly enough.”

Kristy doesn’t bother to suppress her small grin. She’s not in this business for the compliments, but they sure are nice to hear.

“I can’t really take credit for the dance program itself,” she admits. “My partner heads up that side of things. I manage the business end.”  
“That must keep you busy.”  
“Fairly busy. We’ve been able to hire more staff over the past few years though, that lightens the load.”

She doesn’t mention that every time they went through the hiring process it was nearly as stressful as just keeping the workload to herself and her existing staff. Her saving grace was the option of hiring previous colleagues, or long-term volunteers. They were people who she’d worked with before, people she knew she could count on to get things done right.

Elizabeth orders Caesar salad, and a lemon lime and bitters.

With a defiant glint in her eye, Kristy smiles at the waiter. “I’ll have a BLT and a coke.”

*****

Kristy has always had a knack for gritting her teeth and powering forward. She hits her stride about thirty seconds into the meeting; she could talk nonstop for years about the Elevé Foundation’s fundraising history, and the familiarity of the subject gives her brain something to grab onto.  
“Silent auctions have always worked really well for us,” she says. “We’ve build solid relationships with some high profile donors, plus Jessi always has a ton of dance contacts up her sleeve.“  
Elizabeth takes deft notes in a small leather-bound notebook. “Have you ever used an auction service to source anything you sell?”  
“We did the first couple of years, when we had a smaller pool of donors. But we had a few problems with the group we used, and we decided it wasn’t worth the headache. Especially when we can get such good stuff on our own now.”  
“Who did you go through?”  
“Glass and Biggs.”  
“Yeah, their reputation isn’t so great,” Elizabeth agrees. “If you want to try again, I’ve used Starlight Auctions six or seven times. They’ve always been fantastic.”  
Kristy frowns. “Maybe. What are their fees like?”  
“They only charge fees if they handle the whole auction for you. If all you want from them is more items to sell, you only owe the minimum bids.”  
“Not if the stuff doesn’t sell though, right?”  
“Right. Anything you don’t sell just needs to be shipped back to them, which you won’t have to worry about. I’ll deal with all that. I’ve never had anything of theirs left over, though.”

It’s not a terrible idea. Kristy does a quick mental stocktake of their expected donations; she’s anticipating a good haul, but extra stuff to sell never hurts.

“Here, take this.” Elizabeth flicks to the one of the dividers in her notebook. It’s covered in little plastic business-card-sized pockets, and is exactly the same as the ones in Kristy’s own day planner. “I’m more than happy to deal with them for you if you decide to go ahead, but feel free to give them a call or poke around their website if you’d like to check them out for yourself.”  
“Okay. Maybe I will.” Kristy takes the bright red business card from Elizabeth, casting a quick glance over the contact details. “Thanks.”

*****

Kristy is halfway back to the office before realizing that the heavy weight in her stomach has lessened slightly.

She bites her lip. That can’t be a good thing.

*****

“I think Elizabeth might be a witch,” muses Kristy.  
Jessi rolls her eyes, not bothering to look up from her notes. She lifts a clipboard to face height, blocking Kristy from view.  
“You don’t exist.”

Elevé doesn’t have much office space. They have two small meeting rooms, and a large (ish) open space crammed with desks, filing cabinets, and a couple of sofas. Kristy doesn’t even have a private office, but she likes it this way. She’s far more productive amongst the bustle of everyone else doing their jobs than if she was shut away on her own.

“Hey Emma, can you get me a soft copy of the final auction budget?”  
“Sure, just give me a sec.”

Kristy collapses onto a sofa, barely avoiding Jessi’s enormous piles of paper.  
“Are you sending the budget to Elizabeth, or are you revamping it again?” Jessi asks absently, tapping her pen against her temple.  
“Sending it to Elizabeth. She said if I get it to her this afternoon, she can have a draft event design to us sometime Monday.”  
“Cool,” says Jessi, circling something in her notes with magic marker.  
Kristy pulls at a loose thread in the sofa.  
“She has the same dividers that I do.”  
“Those stupid ones with the built-in business card display case that you keep trying to force on all of us?”  
“Yeah. That’s weird, right?”  
“Sure is,” confirms Jessi. “You’re as weird as each other. A match made in hyper-organized freakshow heaven.” She looks up and flashes a wicked grin. “We’re gonna raise a mint this year.”


End file.
